


Three AM Conversations and more

by RussianWitch



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Angst and Feels, Canon-Typical Violence, Cats, Hand Jobs, Heavy Drinking, Introspection, Late Night Conversations, Light Bondage, M/M, Multi, Naked Cuddling, No Smut, Pillow Talk, Psychological Trauma, Threesome - M/M/M, it's unnatural, stuff I've forgotten
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-03-28 08:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13900335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RussianWitch/pseuds/RussianWitch
Summary: The polite thing to do, James thinks, would be to get up, and return to the guestroom.Curled up on the other side of the wide bed, as far from James as he can get, Q obviously doesn’t want him near any longer.-------------------Short one-shots collection.Mostly Bond/Q in various shapes and forms.Rating will go up and down, tags added as needed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd  
> Will be kept running as long as I keep getting infested with plotbunnies

The polite thing to do, James thinks, would be to get up, and return to the guestroom.

Curled up on the other side of the wide bed, as far from James as he can get, Q obviously doesn’t want him near any longer.

The slight stings, especially with Q's sweat still drying on his skin—any other time, with any other person, he wouldn't have noticed, or else wouldn't have cared.

Now, perversely, James wants to reach over, hook a hand over the sharp hipbone, and drag Q back to the middle of the bed.

The quartermaster might fight, but James is heavier, stronger, he could pin the younger man down, and smother his protests with his mouth. James could kiss him until Quinton yields, out of breath, annoyed at the manhandling, but pliantly curling against him instead—someone to hold on to in the middle of the night.

He sits up, switching the bedside lamp on instead.

A carton of cigarettes peaks out from among a heap of magazines and books, upon extraction it's half full and contains a cheap plastic lighter.

"There is an ashtray in the drawer as well," Q says, unexpectedly awake.

Looking up, James catches one eye flashing in the moonlight just above a bony shoulder, before Q turns away again.

"You smoke?" he asks.

The drawer, when he opens it, contains a heavy crystal ashtray with the coat of arms of Buckingham Palace among tubes of personal lubricant and stray bits of wiring.

"Sometimes," Q answers, "it's something to do in the middle of the night. It's a hard habit to break."

Humming in agreement, James rolls off the bed. He lights up as he goes, balancing the heavy ashtray on top of the book pile on the way. Circling the bed, the last traces of sweat evaporating from his skin as he moves, he puts some needed distance between himself and temptation.

The windows are floor to ceiling, covered in milky foil in intricate geometrical patterns to create the illusion of privacy. When James turns around, the bed is a mosaic of dark and light, with Q as the centerpiece, stretched across the expanse to turn off the lamp.

"I could think of better things to do in the middle of the night," James says, leaning against the cool glass, the words habit more than anything. His back stings where Q's nails dug in between the scars, there is going to be a bruise in the shape of a hand on his shoulder, where Q had gripped a little too hard, claims laid in the dark... James isn't sure he's grateful when Q ignores his words.

"I used to be afraid—of a lot of things," the quartermaster days, "lack of purpose, mostly, I think," Q rolls over as he speaks, stretching across messy sheets, "MI6 helped with that."

A peaked nipple flashes in a square of moonlight, a star falls along a skinny thigh, a bolt of lightning settles on the concave belly.

"Hacking for the underworld left you with a lack of purpose?" James can't help mock, shifting so his shadow covers long narrow feet and hairy toes.

He wonders if this, is going to be as close as he's going to come to touching Q from now on?

"Sooner or later, we all need an anchor, Bond," Q says, "a reason to—strive and better ourselves."

The cigarette in his hand is mostly ash, the cherry barely glowing a dull yellow around the edges. James kneels on the mattress between Q's legs, leaning over him to get to the forgotten ashtray.

They watch the stack of ash collapse together, James' lips a mere inch from Q's cheek.

"Yours, of course," Q says conversationally, "is England..." That she is a cold, heartless mistress goes unacknowledged by either of them, as Q's hand closes briefly around James' wrist. Long fingers walk up his arm, making him shiver with anticipation, an ember of something—not quite hope, is sieved from the ashes of past wishes to dull to give off either warmth of light but for the first time in ages present again.

"Mine…" Q smiles, teeth flashing in the darkness.

"Please don't say the cats and a mortgage!" James begs, arching into the hand that cups the back of his head.

As Q laughs, James takes a chance, shifting his weight and lowering himself.

"Hmmm, they do provide a certain grounding element," Q confides, kneeing James gently in the ribs, "nothing more humbling in the world than being woken up by a furry malcontent demanding its brekkie."

Rolling onto his back, James gladly accepts Q's weight, as the young man settles on his lap.

"I'll have to take your word for it," he traces prominent ribs, memorizing Q's hum of pleasure for the future.

"Or, you can experience it for yourself?" Q offers, tensing, biting the rim of his thumb.

"Q—," he's probably gripping too hard already, bruising Q while trying to talk himself into protecting him, even from himself, "that is not—a good idea."

"You already know more about me, than anyone living, isn't that enough?" Q asks, leaning down to nuzzle at James' throat, "would a name really make any difference?" silhouetted again the light, Q's face is hidden in the darkness, he's a shadow, a specter in the night, the illusion that might very well fade with the dawning of the new day.

"I don't know," the honesty hurts more than getting shot off a train.

"Consider it a standing offer, for now—," Q says, sliding off of him to curl around James' side, "it's a privilege not extended lightly."

He thinks about it, waking up with Q not in the 'official' quartermaster's apartment, not in his own barely inhabited flat, but in an actual home. A place that isn't stark and sterile but one that is messy with cats and memories, with life that isn't lived on nerves and the edge of a knife.

James isn't sure he could stand it, but to not even try...


	2. Chapter 2

Q's couch isn't the smallest.

He likes to stretch out and read while leaving enough room for the cats.

In fact, it's big enough to serve as a bed when people stay over, the ones who don't end up sharing with him that is.

Two agents of the Crown take up a lot more space than a skinny quartermaster, even lying on top of each other.

They didn't start out that way, slinking in one after the other they had settled on the different ends, a bottle of something disturbingly alcoholic and violently green between them on a tray Q had provided along with the shot glasses.

He doesn't bother talking to them, choosing to retreat behind his laptop and wait.

They don't look at him, or each other, but he can see their eyes skip around the room checking doors and windows over and over again, despite knowing the layout of his flat as well as Q himself, and the security measures implemented.

Neither of them looks injured, but then, they are good at hiding a lot, preferring to crawl away to hide to lick their wounds instead of asking for help.

Much like the cats they are ignoring.

The level of bright green liquid in the bottle drops steadily for several hours, as the agents slowly unwind, sinking deeper into the couch.

Their fingers brush as both reach for the bottle at the same time, startling them both into looking up—and something changes. It's as if all of a sudden, they recognize each other.

After months of separate assignments, each on a different side of the world with barely an occasion to get word to Q, never mind each other, they've gone feral, as Q sees it. On their own, they tend to forget that they are more than fingers on triggers, that they are men with needs and wants that matter.

After tough missions it takes them longer, Q has noticed, to remember themselves, to remember affection and how to touch without violence.

They come slinking into Q's apartment weary, like beaten dogs trusting one last time in human kindness, to occupy the couch and drink until the alcohol dulls their senses enough to sleep.

Slowly, steel spines bend, rigid postures ease.

Instead of casing the room, they start stealing glances at each other, shifting position until only the tray is between them, hands brushing shyly with every shot they take, knuckles rubbing as they play with their glasses.

Q holds his breath, frozen behind his laptop, heat pooling in his loins, watching Alec surge forward, catching James' tie to pull him in and savage his mouth, teeth lips and tongue used to attack—until the glasses and bottle clank in danger of being crushed between them.

With a curse, Alec let's go, practically throwing the tray onto a side-table then crawling into James' lap, pinning him down against the back of the couch.

Q watches them struggle, Alec takes James' face in his hands, make him hold still for soft kisses and caresses until James' hands stop fisting Alec's shirt and cup his ass instead.

Once the dam breaks, Q digs his nails into his thigh to keep from moving or making a sound. He doesn't want them to remember he's there, watching them as they strip each other roughly, carelessly, skin hunger taking hold.

There are ugly bruises on Alec's back, high up, like he'd been thrown into something, slammed into the wall maybe, but not too recent already yellow with age, and Q catches sight of a fresh row of stitches on James' upper arm as well, along with a scratch above his right eyebrow.  
Their hands clasp, muscles straining as they push and pull against each other, a silent negotiation until with a growl, Alec twists sinking his teeth into James' throat. His arms are wrenched back, pinned in the small of Alec's back as James keens throwing his head back to give Alec better access.

Despite his best efforts, a moan escapes Q, the agents freeze twin predatory gazes pinning him down.

"Q—," it's more of a sound than anything else, request and command, maybe a prayer. Like a leash, a chain that binds all of them together, the sound of his name pulls Q from behind his laptop and to them.

Q settles next to them, his every move slow and obvious to put them at ease.

Their hands tremble as they wrap around Q's shoulders to pull him closer and share between them.

They undress him, rubbing against him, scarred hide against soft skin. Q loses track of who is where, gets drunk on their presence, the fact that they are alive, and safe and there with him.

Q isn't sure how he ends up straddling Alec's lap, leaning back against James who's gotten his hands on the bottle of booze, running the cool glass across Q's belly, before pouring a bit of the sticky green liquid on Alec's chest.

"Time to catch up, luv," Alec pants, tanging his hand in Q's hair, guiding him down until Q's close enough to stick out his tongue an lap at the alcohol. Bitter and sweet at the same time, it sticks to his tongue, the taste alcohol fills his senses.

Under him, Alec curses his pleasure, behind him, James drapes over his back, thrusting his dick lazily into the cleft of Q's ass. Arousal surges though Q, reminding him that this—whatever they are doing isn't just comfort, it is need as well. He scrapes his teeth over the sensitive nub between his lips, wiggling against the hard flesh poking at him.

James mouths at the back of Q's neck, tightening his hands on Q's hips while humping his ass. Alec's hand finds its way between them, wraps around himself and Q, gives them something to rut against.          

Closing his eyes, Q allows sensation to take over, reaching back to cup James' head, to keep him close while sucking bruises on Alec's shoulder, listening to Alec murmur curses and encouragements, demands that they come, that they stay with him, that they are his and he's theirs.  
James comes against his ass, hot and sticky ropes of come across the back of Q's thighs, slumping across Q's back, pinning him down against Alec.

Thrusting isn't an option, not with the weight of an agent on his back, Q can barely draw breath, dizzy from the lack of air and need to come already. Alec's hand tightens around them, uncomfortable, almost painful, but better than nothing pushing him towards the edge.

It's a miracle he doesn't pass out coming while sobbing against Alec's shoulder, trapped and cocooned between them.

The application of a sharp elbow gets Q a little more breathing room, once he manages to regain control of his muscles. He stays with them as long as he can, indulging their need for touch until the itch of drying come drives him from their embrace and into the shower.

When Q comes back, the agents are asleep, wrapped around each other.

They don't even move, when he unearths a plaid, covering them up and dimming the lights.

Making himself a cup of tea, he returns to his computer, intent on staying awake to make sure nothing disturbs his lovers' rest.


	3. Chapter 3

He's in the HQ gym sparring with Alec when the later helpfully points out that there are lines of code scribbles across his ribs. Black marker, spiky handwriting, the same all the 00 agents find on their equipment requisition slips and after action reports.

* * *

He's on a plane to Dubai when he notices the end of a string of numbers on in wrist. The call came in the middle of the night, he'd dressed without bothering to turn on the lights. The marker is the same blue as his tie, and the equation goes all the way up his inner arm.

* * *

He's in his apartment for more than fifteen minutes, for what feels like the first time in months. Rationally, James knows arguments happen, and people get past them. Relationships survive for years, other people's relationships he thinks of Tanner and Claudia, Felix and Samantha, millions of civilians and his own track record.

The bathroom mirror reminds him of all the reasons they are wrong for each other, age, experience, interests, innocence…

He turns away in disgust, to spot a flash of red on his shoulder blade.

Technical specs for an exploding pen.

Instead of showering James goes to bed, wishing he could feel the writing, the spike letters like welts, his to keep forever.

* * *

The quartermaster's office is full of notes, work schedules, schematics and a large SCRUM board on the back wall. Making sure no one is looking, James traces part of an equation, leaving his equipment with a random subordinate, rather than wait for Q to appear from one of the test labs, he leaves a pack of permanent markers in different colors in the middle of the overflowing desk.

* * *

The first time he found himself marked, he had been shocked.

Sleep rarely comes easy, and it's never deep. Alone, he twists and turns throwing himself from one nightmare into the next, when not drinking himself to sleep.

When there is someone in his bed, he barely sleeps at all.

With most of them, he didn't want a knife in his back.

With others…

He'd thought he'd been compromised, had spent days looking into knockout drugs and possible delivery methods.

* * *

<< **Stop stalking me, or I'm calling Tanner!** >> The text reads, his phone continuing to beep until he opens it.

<< **I didn't change the codes.** >> Reads the next one, the lights in the flat coming on.

He shouldn't.

He's still a liability to Q, and Q to him, he's still a killer and Q is not.

He's still weak.

The cats still try to trip him when he walks in.

There still isn't room to hang his coat properly on the coatrack.

Q stands in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around himself in pajama pants and one of James' jumpers.

* * *

He cups Q's face, tracing the cheekbones with his thumbs, looking his fill.

Q's nimble hands slide across his chest, tugging at the buttons of his shirt until they are caressing bare skin and familiar scars. They stand there swaying, breathing the same air, all the words they cannot bring themselves to say hanging between them.

"Take me to bed," Q demands, surging against James, taking a kiss that's teeth, tongue, and lips, clawing at James's back like a feral cat.

Notes are scribbled on the sheets and pillow on the right side of the bed, different colors running over each other making a colorful mess.

"My notepad was being an arse," Q grumbles, pressing James into the mattress.

"How appalling," James commiserates, "whatever shall you do?"

* * *

"Stay still!" Q grumbles, slapping his thigh for good measure.

The order and the accompanying sting make James want to disobey, if only he felt less languid, and just a little dizzy from the rush of having Q in his arms again.

The felt tip of the marker scratches and tickles along his ribs, "Really, James!" Q warns, again sitting up, "the more you move, the longer this shall take!" As if that's incentive to keep still.

Raising his head, he looks down his body to the colorful marks and feels something like peace settle over him.

Q straddles his thigh, one bony knee perilously close to James' balls, the tip of his tongue sticks out of his mouth as he thinks, swaying suggestively oblivious to what he's doing to James' control.

"I never took you for a sadist," James complains when Q leans over him to get at his shoulder, staring a long string of ones and zeroes.

"I never took you for the type to stay," Q mumbles against his jaw, reaching down between them absentmindedly to wrap his fingers around their cocks.


	4. Chapter 4

"You really should eat," the apparition says materializing between Q and the monitor, "it's been eight hours." It adds before Q can protest.

From experience, he knows that the ghost isn't going to go away until he eats, even switching machines won't help; Alec has too much experience with haunting things to let a tablet or mobile phone stop him.

"I was almost done!" He grumbles, pushing away from the table grudgingly.

The cats follow him to the kitchen, meowing loudly for food and attention despite the bowls laden of dry food standing in easy reach. Alec simply materializes next to the fridge.  
"You're always 'almost done'," he says opening the fridge door to inspect its content, "I think that curry is giving up the ghost." 

* * *

Q had been warned that some of MI6's personnel flats came with 'complications', he'd been thinking bad maintenance, he'd gotten—Alec and walls which occasionally seeping blood.

The blood was annoying, Alec—Q still doesn't know what to think about Alec.

Q had tried to look him up in the company records, only to encounter so much redacting that he'd been forced to stop. Breaking through the encryptions would have been easy, but it would also have meant running the risk of losing a job he'd grown rather attached to.

"It's for a good cause, tomorrow I'm getting a chance at handling a 00," he tells Alec between bites.

The ghost likes to watch him eat, Alec misses the activity, the tastes, and textures of food. Occasionally, he'd shared, he possessed a stray animal just to be able to taste again.

It was never quite satisfying, but it was something.

"My aren't you something, getting a 00! At your age!" The ghost mocks, but it feels forced.

Not for the first time Q wonders if Alec hadn't been an agent himself when was alive.

* * *

"I—I have to warn you I have—," Q stalls, playing with the front door key, unsure how to explain the situation without Bond thinking him utterly had.

"You did mention the cats," Bond's smile is meant to put him at ease, it only makes Q wonder if he's being indulged.

"I suppose showing is better than telling," if Alec doesn't approve, the whole thing will be a wash anyway.

He stabs the keys into the lock with slightly more force than necessary, opening the door just enough to slip through, before remembering to open it wider for his guest.

"Welcome to my parlor," he sighs, bending down to grab Tribble before he legs it into the stairwell.

"Said the spider to the fly," Bond murmurs with amusement, shrugging out of his coat.

"Tea?" Q asks, ignoring the dig.

They drink tea casually settling on the couch, talking about current events and cat maintenance, and of course their mutual love for cars.

The cats, don't disapprove, slinking by occasionally for a sniff and a stray pet, instead of mounting an assault on Bond's coat which is practically their seal of approval.

It's a nice bonus where Q is concerned.

Then Bond shifts, throwing an around Q's shoulders—and not long after, Q is shirtless, lying on the couch with Bond's bodyweight pinning him down pleasantly as his throat is pleasantly mauled.

Bond seems to have made it his mission for the evening to find every one of Q's pleasure points, and teasing them with his mouth and hands…and every time Q tries to return the favour, his hands are pushed away, pressed back against the couch so Bond can carry on.

* * *

Q's brain comes online again having lost some seconds—or possibly minutes in pleasure and hopefully nothing—embarrassing, he'll have to check with Alec about the last bit later. Side-eyeing the body taking up more than half of his bed, Q is annoyed that even now, there is something about the man that makes him want to reach out and touch even if he's pretty sure neither of them is capable of another round.

Bond opens his eyes, and his mouth does something that, belatedly, Q realized is a smile. One he hadn't recognized as one before, due to its rarity. It is not what he expected, neither is Bond's languid sprawl: the agent should be getting dressed, getting ready to be on his way out by now, possibly in the shower if he was feeling particular, certainly not—staying.

Q hasn't planned for this, it isn't in the script he'd formulated and the implications for the future are alarming...

What if he's misunderstood Bond's intentions?

Q had been alright with becoming another notch on a bedpost, he wasn't quite as alright with—this.

"If you're already thinking this hard, I mustn't have been doing it right," Bond says, reaching for him, warm and still a little sweaty—soft in a way Q hadn't expected to be possible.

"Fishing for compliments?" He wonders, shivering at the sensation of stubble scratching skin as Bond rubs his face across Q's chest.

"Asking for directions," James corrects, "I can't very well leave my quartermaster in a lurch," his hand is warm on Q's thigh, drawing geometrical patterns, distracting Q from Bond's actual words.

"Can you even get it up again?" He wonders, freezing when he realizes what just came out of his mouth.

"Bloody cheek!" The killer mutters, tonguing Q's navel, while tugging softly at Q's pubic hair, the small sting of it making his cock twitch with unexpected interest, "where is the respect for your elders?" He scrapes his teeth over Q's hipbone, making him shiver and squirm.

"Does that mean you want me to call you 'daddy'?" He asks, digging his nails into the back of Bond's neck. He supposes he could, but taking it seriously—would be problematic. Bond shivers, or maybe shudders, raising his head to give Q a dirty look and biting him again.

The way Bond is going at it, Q wonders if there is going to be a bruise, or possibly a bite-mark? He'd be able to feel it for days, could touch is through his clothing during the day to remind himself of having Bond in his bed.

"Tell me what you like?" Bond asks, nipping his way down Q's abdomen and somehow finding spots that make him moan, far more he hadn't even been aware of, "Q?" Bond urges, pausing to breathe against the base of Q's cock.

"He'd like you to shove off now," Alec says materializing at the end of the bed.

What happens next, is a jumble of cursing and limbs, that result in bullet holes in Q's wall and a smug looking Alec floating out of the bedroom to check on the cats.

"I did try to warn you," Q sighs, wrapping the sheets around his middle.

"What the bloody hell is that?" Bond demands, gun still held at a ready.

"That's—I really need more tea to explain, if—that is, you're—staying?" he doesn't expect it, staying isn't in Bond's M.O. but then, neither had most of the evening.

He watches Bond consider the situation, calculating the odds most likely, possibly deciding which car service to call to get himself home the fastest—

"You better offer me something stronger than tea this time!" Bond says, putting on his trousers and holster.

Q's mouth goes dry, and all he can do is nod dumbly, then shuffle out of the door still wrapped in a sheet.


	5. Chapter 5

Sleeping in is a luxury he rarely indulges in.

There are too few hours in the day as is, to spend them on sleep he doesn't really need is—an excess.

At least that's what he tells himself when getting up at two bells, having stared up at the ceiling for hours already. Pills help, but getting them means going into medical, watching them note it down in his file, seeing pity in their eyes, seeing the countdown to mandatory retirement speed up just a little more.

"You won't get fed if you kill me, you realize?" Q grumbles, kicking open the bedroom door a breakfast tray in hand, the cats circling around his legs, meowing demandingly.

He's been in five-star hotels and millionaire's homes slept on slick silk, and expensive cotton, and never felt as rested as after spending a night on a too narrow bed with a slightly lumpy mattress and flannel sheets.

Q makes it to the bed without tripping and waits for James to sit up before settling the tray on his legs. There is slightly singed toast, jam, Q has finally given up on trying to make edible eggs, and possibly bacon, or the remains of the leather apron used for both cooking and the odd bit of welding. The tray holds both a coffee and a teapot, which is the only thing James cares about.

"To what do I owe this bounty?" he asks, nuzzling at Q's throat as he settles in at his side pushing Albert away before he upturns the tray.

"I woke up before you, it seemed like a good idea," Q frowns down at a piece of toast, possibly already trying to redesign the toaster.

James takes him by the chin, guiding him into a kiss, and Q goes willingly, morning breath a small consideration after blood, grime, and grease tainted kisses of the past.

"You spoil me," he leans against a bony shoulder, pouring himself coffee one-handed.

The coffee is good, it always is, Q's explanation is that the process is similar to tea.

"For a snob, you have abominably low standards," Q tells him, his mouth half full of toast, "if you consider charred toast covered in cat hair being spoiled."

"No one made me breakfast in bed before," James says, feeding a bit of bacon to Tribble.

When he looks at Q again, the shock on the younger man's face is almost amusing, even if the curiosity is painful. James doesn't have the words to explain that before Vesper there hadn't been anyone to bother with, and with Vesper—they hadn't made it past infatuation, past hotels and room service with perfect toast and tastefully arranged china. They never had the chance to fight over the way the toothpaste was squeezed out of the tube, or the right brand of detergent.

He kisses Q again instead, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and stealing a bite of his toast.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously? I'm on 6 already? 
> 
> Based on a prompt from either the AO3 writers or 007 groups no idea which, the prompt being something along the lines of instead of soulmates, soul enemies have identifying marks.

"Q," he calls, stumbling into the hall, out of breath and dizzy from blood loss, all James wants to do is let himself fall, crawl into a corner and wait for the pain to stop—crawl across the room to lay his head in Q's lap.

The younger man's glasses are cracked, the right pantleg slick and glossy with blood, he stands still like a statue in the middle of the room watching James dispassionately.

"Bond," he finally greats, straightening his glasses by habit, "took you long enough."

"Yes, well—," no quip comes to mind, nothing but words he knows Q doesn't want to hear.

Somewhere below them, the building rumbles, the explosions Q set off to keep James having done their best to decimate the structure.

With the last of his reserves, James crosses the room reaching for Q—and hitting glass.

"Q..." Part of him always knew it was a trap, most of him didn't care, "tell me you have way out." Perhaps, James thinks, his demise is the best thing for both of them.

It beats getting pulled together, again and again, cutting themselves on each other's edges.

He slides down onto his knees along the glass never taking his eyes off the slender man on the other side.

Q will leave soon, will have to escape the collapse sure to come, leaving James to die, but he'll have the memory—

"I have a way out," Q says, kneeling on the other side of the glass.

His fingers trace a line across the thick glass, and James can almost feel it on his skin. He presses his cheek harder against the cool, slick slab.

"Good," he sighs, his fingers leaving a mess as he tries to line them up with Q's.

"You look tired," Q says, a note of displeasure creeping into his voice.

"Chasing after you, takes it out of a man," James laughs—it hurts, but it's better than crying, better than howling at the universe for its injustice.

"You can rest now," Q almost sounds kind, almost—caring.

"I do love you, you know," James tells the room, turning away from Q to spare himself the sight of scorn.

Q cannot help to hate him, cannot help hurt him, it's only natural the marks they both carry over their hearts say so.

James is the twisted one, the broken one who cannot help long for that which is not meant to be.

"You're a fool," Q tells him, standing up.

Closing his eyes, James listens to his footsteps fading in the distance as he leaves the room.

Somewhere a timer is running out.

Soon, the pain will stop.


End file.
